


Le Problème Avec Les Bourgeoisie

by dancingloki



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingloki/pseuds/dancingloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revolution gets Enjolras hard. Grantaire wishes he would just shut up and fuck him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Problème Avec Les Bourgeoisie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foriintendtowriteit on tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=foriintendtowriteit+on+tumblr).



> Written as part of a follower appreciation post I did on my tumblr. Thought it was good enough to share here :) Désolé pour ma français terrible! J'ai etudie au lycee mais ma grammaire est degutant et j'ai oubliai beaucoup :( s'il vous plait me corriger, si vous voulez!

 “Le problème avec les bourgeoisie,” Enjolras began—

“Je m’en fous de ‘le problème avec les bourgeoisie’,” Grantaire grunted, interrupting him. “Ah! _Merde!_ ” Enjolras had tugged sharply on his hair.

“M’écoutes,” he ordered sternly, “c’est important. Le problème—”

Grantaire shoved his hips backwards roughly, knocking him off the bed. He flopped over onto his back, stretching his naked limbs carelessly in all directions, and kicked at Enjolras half-heartedly, failing to thwart his return to the bed.

“Mon cher,” Enjolras began saying softly, tracing his fingers through the soft hair on Grantaire’s bare stomach, “si tu m’écoutes juste pour—”

“Je m’en fous,” he interrupted again. “Passes-moi du vin, la.”

Enjolras sighed, passing over the wineskin Grantaire had left on the side table. Grantaire waved away the cup Enjolras proffered with it, pulling directly from the skin. Enjolras grimaced.

Outside the window, street urchins shouted indistinct insults at each other. Inside the tiny bedroom, the cloying smell of sex mixed with the fumes from the wine spilled on the floor. Enjolras lay back on the bed, closing his eyes and breathing it in.

Corking the skin and tossing it carelessly to the floor, Grantaire rolled suddenly on top of Enjolras, kissing him roughly. Enjolras could taste the wine, sour, on the tongue Grantaire thrust, sloppy, into his mouth.

Grantaire pulled back, looking down into Enjolras’ face with a strange expression. Then he suddenly rolled away onto his stomach, pushing his ass up into the air in an obvious command.

“Je m’en fous de ta révolution,” Enjolras heard him mutter for the third time. “La révolution c’est dans la rue, pas dans ma chambre. Vas-tu.”

Enjolras sighed again, loudly, but smiled fondly when Grantaire ignored him. He crawled over, running his hands over Grantaire’s back, his smile widening when Grantaire arched up into his touch like a sulky cat.

He took his cock in one hand, positioning himself carefully on his knees, then pressed slowly forward. He savoured the low, rumbling moan Grantaire let out as Enjolras entered him, and leaned down, landing small kisses across Grantaire’s naked back.

“Le problème—avec—les bourgeoisie—,” Enjolras panted softly as he worked his hips slowly, ever so slowly, back and forth, “c’est qu’—ils—ne comprennent pas—avoir faim.”

“Ah!” Grantaire cried out, arching back, as Enjolras found his prostate.

Enjolras buried his fist deep in Grantaire’s mess of dark curls. Grantaire moaned wantonly and clenched the blankets in his fists, rolling his hips back against Enjolras’. Enjolras pushed Grantaire’s shoulders down against the mattress, levering his hips up higher. Grantaire’s head lolled sideways, his mouth slack and eyes half-lidded as he panted.

Enjolras pressed his hips flush with Grantaire’s ass, his cock buried to its full length, and leaned forward, covering Grantaire’s body with his. He rolled his hips in gentle circling motions as he wrapped his free arm around Grantaire’s chest and hugged him tight, feeling the slick of their skin slide.

“Ils n’ont jamais eu faim,” he whispered, lips tracing the shell of Grantaire’s ear. “Ils n’ont jamais moururent de faim.” His breath tickled the dark curls that hung, damp with sweat, on Grantaire’s neck. “Ils n’ont jamais perdirent son enfants eu faim.” Grantaire moaned eagerly, pushing his ass back against Enjolras’ hips, as Enjolras licked a wet stripe up his neck, pulling Grantaire’s earlobe into his mouth with the tip of his tongue.

Enjolras savoured the salt-taste of sweat on his tongue, still rolling his hips in little circles, feeling the muscles inside of Grantaire’s ass contracting fitfully as he whimpered, fists clenching and unclenching against the bed.

“S’il te plait—” Grantaire moaned, breathy.

“Mm?” Enjolras kissed his cheek gently, smiling when Grantaire turned head to lift his mouth up towards the kiss, eyes closed, seeking.

“S’il te plait,” he panted again.

“Qu’est que c’est?” Enjolras whispered, tracing Grantaire’s ear with the tip of his tongue.

“ _Merde!_ ” Grantaire suddenly swore violently, shouting. “Connarde! Baises-moi!”

Enjolras laughed, sitting up. Grantaire shoved him roughly away and rolled onto his back, wrapping his legs around Enjolras’ waist and pulling him close again, scowling. He reached up and buried his fingers in Enjolras’ hair, gripping it in tight fists, and hauled him down—or himself up, or both—for another rough, sloppy kiss that left them both breathless. Enjolras groped blindly between their bodies, finding his cock and shoving at Grantaire’s legs, trying to get room to manoeuvre.

“Grantaire—mon cher—lâches-moi—aïe! Arrêt!” Grantaire had lost patience and yanked at Enjolras’ hair.

He shoved Grantaire down onto his back on the bed, breaking his grip on Enjolras’ hair and waist both. Grantaire sprawled back on the bed with his own sort of careless drunken dignity, staring up at Enjolras with resentful impatience stamped all over his face.

“Le problème avec les bourgeoisie,” Enjolras began again just to tease him, laughing aloud when Grantaire swatted at him and shouted.

“Je m’en _fous_ de ton bourgeoisie! Baises-moi!”

“Ah, oui, oui,” Enjolras chuckled, spreading Grantaire’s thighs with one hand and taking his cock in the other. He leaned down and kissed Grantaire’s chest as he began to fuck him, teasing his nipple with his tongue until he writhed.

Grantaire cried out, _loud_ —loud enough to be heard from the street, if anyone were listening—when Enjolras found his prostate again.

“Ils ne sont pas les aristocrates,” Enjolras groaned, his voice hoarse, “ils ne seront jamais les aristocrates,” Grantaire moaned softly, his voice oddly low and deep, “mais ils ne sont pas les citoyennes.”

“ _Oh_ —” Grantaire sighed.

“Ils ne sont pas,” Enjolras growled, mouthing at Grantaire’s neck, “avec la révolution.”

He buried his forehead in Grantaire’s shoulder as he came, tension rippling through his body. Grantaire tugged roughly at his hair until he remembered and wrapped a broad palm around Grantaire’s cock, stroking him until he shuddered and came all over Enjolras’ stomach.

Enjolras breathed out.

He felt Grantaire’s hands clench, holding his skull tight, then release, detangling from his hair. He felt Grantaire’s arms impact the bed as they fell, limp, at his sides.

Enjolras breathed in.

Grantaire’s palms found his shoulders and pushed; he obeyed the wordless command, pulling out with a grimace and settling down next to him. Grantaire turned his back on Enjolras, making himself comfortable on his side.

He reached out and traced his fingers, lightly, over Grantaire’s shoulder and upper arm. Grantaire immediately snuggled back against his chest, yanking Enjolras’ arm around his chest. Enjolras hummed and placed a tender kiss in the middle of Grantaire’s damp curls.

“Je t’aime,” he whispered softly, and Grantaire snorted.

“Je m’en fous de ta fichue révolution,” he said flatly, and Enjolras grinned despite himself.

“Et moi? Tu t’en fous de moi?” he asked, and got a sharp elbow in the ribs for his trouble.

“Je ne le dis pas,” Grantaire grumbled. Enjolras laughed and squeezed him tight.

A carriage clattered by in the street outside, and Enjolras could hear the urchins jeering at it.

“Passes-moi du vin,” Grantaire said.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations of the French dialogue, in order:
> 
> The problem with the bourgeoisie (upper middle class)--  
> I don't give a fuck about 'the problem with the bourgeoisie'.  
> Shit!  
> Listen to me, it's important. The problem--  
> My dear, if you'd listen to me for just--  
> I don't give a fuck. Pass me the wine, there.  
> I don't give a fuck about your revolution. The revolution's out in the streets, not in my bedroom. Get going.  
> The problem--with--the bourgeoisie--is that--they--don't understand--being hungry.  
> They've never been hungry. They've never died of hunger. They've never lost children to hunger.  
> Please--  
> Please--  
> What is it?  
> Shit! You asshole! Fuck me!  
> Grantaire--my dear--let go of me--ouch! Stop!  
> The problem with the bourgeoisie--  
> I don't give a fuck about your bourgeoisie! Fuck me!  
> Ah, yeah, yeah.  
> They're not aristocrats, they'll never be aristocrats, but they're not Citizens.  
> They are not with The Revolution.  
> I love you.  
> I don't give a fuck about your stupid revolution.  
> And me? You don't give a fuck about me?  
> I didn't say that.  
> Pass me the wine.


End file.
